Forget-Me-Not
by BlueSkyScribe
Summary: Violence and brutality are the hallmarks of the Autobot army. But when you're an Autobot built like a stack of sticks, you develop other methods. A Shattered Glass story.
1. Chapter 1

Rung repeatedly told the guards to be careful with prisoners. He reminded them that Lord Prime expected certain standards to be upheld. He emphasized that he couldn't communicate with prisoners effectively if they had a concussion.

Yet here was a guard shoving a scraped and battered Deadlock into his office. The yellow and grey Decepticon brought his manacled hands in front of his helm as a shove from behind made him stumble faceplate first to the floor.

Rung's eyebrows drew down over his round red optics, giving the guards a stern look as they retreated—not that they seemed to notice. Tsking to himself, Rung pulled his Decepticon guest upright—with some effort, as Deadlock outweighed him by a considerable amount—and planted him in a chair.

"I apologize for the boorish treatment—" He snatched his hand back as the Decepticon snarled and twisted to bite at him, but Rung's tone remained calm. "You're Deadlock, is that correct? My name is Rung. I've been assigned to be your psychiatrist."

Deadlock stared at him with a blank expression, like he was waiting for a punchline. It was foolish, Rung reminded himself, to feel hurt or slighted at the lack of recognition. Of course he wouldn't remember seeing Rung. No one remembered Rung. He kept a smile on his face as Deadlock asked, predictably and sarcastically, if he turned into a ladder.

* * *

Deadlock sat tensely on the edge of his chair, glaring at Rung. It was their third session that week and Rung couldn't help but be anxious about the lack of progress. He had removed the Decepticon's shackles in the last session hoping to inspire some kind of reaction, positive or negative. So far nothing. Rung put on an unconcerned face and pretended to be wholly focused on painting the Autobot insignia onto a model of an Inquisitor-class warship.

He looked up and smiled as he caught Deadlock glaring at him, because eye contact was better than nothing.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Rung said. He balanced the ship on his fingertips, beaming down at it. "It's one of the least aerodynamic ships in the fleet," he continued, "but it's also the most iconic—"

The scrape of the chair was his only warning. He looked up to see Deadlock leaping towards him, silent and grim. Rung closed his optics and went limp to rob the blow of its impact. Still, Deadlock's fist caught him under his chin with enough force to lift the skinny maroon bot out of his chair.

It was more than enough to trigger Rung's self-defense mods.

Electricity crackled over the entirety Rung's frame as soon as Deadlock connected. It hurt. It always hurt. But it always hurt Rung's assailant more than himself.

For a split second Deadlock stared at him with wide blue optics, gaping foolishly as lightning crawled up his arm; one of his eyes blew out as he collapsed onto the desk. So Deadlock didn't get to see Rung's magnificent, cacophonous crash into the cabinet. It teetered, sending paperwork, glue, and brushes raining down on him. Something sticky poured down Rung's head, rolling over his shoulders and down his chest. Model paint. He scraped it away with his hands.

After his frame stopped prickling he picked out a rag from the cabinet, wiped his servos, and rolled Deadlock off the desk. With a regretful half-smile he swept the Inquisitor, the most feared and heavily armed ship in the Autobot army, into the garbage bin; it had proved no match for the weight of an unconscious Decepticon landing on it. Rung reached for his comm.

"I need someone to transfer a prisoner back to his cell. Not Shock or Ore, please, I'd prefer someone who won't leave him worse than they found him."

"Sure thing, Ring!" Swerve's voice chirped over the comm. "Err—what room are you in again?"

Rung's fingers slowly curled into fists as he told him.

* * *

Rung did not request medical care for Deadlock's cracked optic and apparently no one else did either because it was still nonfunctional when the next session rolled around. Rung felt a twinge of guilt at the sight but, he reminded himself, it was Deadlock's own fault for attacking him. And that model ship had taken two weeks to assemble.

"I'm afraid our previous session was cut short," Rung said comfortably. "But we've learned something about each other, haven't we?"

Deadlock was as silent as ever, but a bit of uncertainty was sliding into his one-eyed stares.

Rung made no attempt to fill the silence. Unscrewing a bottle of paint, he began rubbing it onto his plating with wide, practiced swipes of a painting cloth. He had already been half-covered with it, and it was a nice color, so why not?

"That's—"

Rung looked up; Deadlock looked away, wetting his upper lip.

"That's Earth stuff. That's Earth language."

"It's English, yes."

Deadlock stared at him suspiciously. Rung could understand his surprise. Most Autobots wouldn't be caught dead using a product manufactured by organics. But Rung was more pragmatic. Organics had their uses, like everything else. Everything in its place.

"Who are you really?"

"I'm a psychiatrist like I told you, Deadlock. I'm a therapist."

"Don't need one. I'm not crazy."

"Anyone can benefit from introspection. I'm here to help you."

Deadlock gave a short, ugly laugh and his injured eye flared for an instant. "Yeah right, and I'm a microscope. 'Bots don't help 'Cons."

"Most of my patients are Autobots, but there's no reason why I can't help you too." He paused a moment. "That's why I requested that you be transferred from Prowl's care to mine."

Deadlock's clawed fingers dug into the arms of the chair. "You think I'm dumb? You think good cop, bad cop is gonna work on me? Prowl didn't get nothin' out of me," he snarled, "and you won't either. I'm a 'Con through an' through. I'll die before giving up—" He snapped his mouth shut abruptly.

"There's no need to be so coy," Rung said mildly. "You'll die before giving up the location of your base, is that what you going to say?" Deadlock didn't answer, so Rung went on. "Everyone knows Prowl was looking for the location of a secret Autobot base. A haven for your elite. But it's not a subject that particularly interests me."

"Yeah, right. Fragging liar. You 'Bots are all the same."

Again, Rung pushed down a slight feeling of hurt. Of course he could understand why Deadlock would think that, considering his perspective. It was understandable.

And Rung's job was to understand.

Tactfully, he changed to subject. "I've read through your files, Deadlock. I'm sorry you had to deal with Prowl. His methods can be . . ." He paused. "Overzealous."

"Overzealous," Deadlock repeated. His laughter was scornful, if a tad shaky too.

Rung gave him a pitying look, but he felt a pleased smugness pooling in his spark. How right he'd been to steal him from Prowl's grasp. As if that fool would have achieved anything anyway. He'd told Prowl that this one wouldn't break.

Well, the interrogator had had his go; now it was Rung's turn to try his own talents.

He took a cube of energon off the warmer and poured each of them a cup.

"I understand, Deadlock." He smiled pleasantly and pushed the cup into the Decepticon's clawed hand. "More than you know."

Patience. Patience.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

When Deadlock had been captured by the Autobots, he'd thought he was going to die. When Prowl had "interrogated" him, he'd wished he could die. Now, he thought he might die of boredom. His life consisted of staring at a blank cell wall or staring at Rung as he asked goofy questions. Usually while Rung repainted himself. Maybe the Autobot would actually finish someday if he didn't dab it on bit by bit with that stupidly small paintbrush. He hadn't even gotten his arm done.

The scrawny Autobot never asked about encryption codes or the hidden 'Con base or battle tactics. It was always weird slag like 'did Deadlock connect well with the other Decepticons' and 'did he see Megatron as more of a mentor than a general' and 'when did Deadlock first become aware of Functionism.'

What kind of question was that, even? The Functionists controlled the whole _world_ for longer than Deadlock had been alive and they weren't shy about letting everyone know it.

"Knew about it since I can remember. Turns out my _function_ was to starve to death in an alley," he growled.

Watching Rung scribble down his response with a half-maroon, half-blue hand, Deadlock felt an uneasy twist in his tank. It was a harmless answer to a harmless question. But why the frag was Rung so _into_ it?

Probably just an act. Rung probably thought Deadlock was simple. He probably thought Deadlock was dumb. That all these questions would make Deadlock would let his guard down. Well, Rung and his big words and his fancy degree wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Dead End. Let Rung ask his weird questions. Whatever. Deadlock was going to clam up as soon as the little twerp asked for something important.

Today's weird question was about Megatron's poetry, of all things.

First Rung asked him if he'd read it. Then he asked him if he liked it.

"Yeah," Deadlock said, raising his chin defiantly. Prowl would definitely have socked him in the jaw for an answer like that, if his hands weren't busy doing something even worse.

"Oh yes?" Rung smiled at him. "What was your favorite work of his?"

Deadlock felt . . . insulted somehow. He was an elite, widely feared Decepticon. He'd cut a swath through legions of Autobots. And he'd just admitted to major treason. The Autobots had banned all of Megatron's writings, even his very earliest work which had been nothing but a small, factual pamphlet on proper upkeep of mining drills.

And here was Rung was acting like they were part of the same book club!

He stared the little bastard straight in the optics, letting his voice take on an even rougher, cruder edge than usual. "My favorite was the one where he blew the fraggin' head off every senator, one by one."

Rung didn't look angry, he looked thoughtful. "I assume you're talking about _The Cards Did Fall,_ which contained a rather obvious metaphor for the destruction of the senate, or his early work, _I Did a-Domble Down the Shale,_ which hid its message behind humorous verse and local vernacular that only fellow miners would be likely to understand?"

Rung clenched his jaw, grinding his dentae together as Rung tilted his head, waiting for an answer. He would die before he admitted that he had never actually read any of Megatron's poetry.

Of course he didn't die. Rung just smiled and called the guards to take him back.

"Ah, I think I hear them. I hope it's not Shock and Ore this time," Rung murmured to himself, carefully setting his paintbrush down and standing up. But he paused on his way to the door, dropping his servo to rub Deadlock's head. Like he was a fraggin' cyberhound or something. "You know, Deadlock, if you were less unruly you might get further."

"Frag off." Deadlock tried to jerk his head away. Rung didn't have proper claws or talons, just like he didn't have proper anything-else for an Autobot, but the tips of his fingers came to modest points and he easily held on.

Still keeping his grip, Rung bent down so that his round red optics were level with Deadlock's. He was still smiling, but sadly now. "You do like to do things the hard way, Deadlock. Don't forget, it's me or Prowl." His fingers dug in a little deeper. "Just something to keep in mind."

Deadlock swallowed. "Yeah, whatever." But his spark was spinning faster.

* * *

Rung leaned back in his chair, removing his optical magnifiers and rubbing a hand over his eyes. Without moving, he pulled up an internal display of his schedule. An hour's break followed by three more sessions. After a moment he edited his schedule, shrinking his break to a half hour and squeezing a fourth session in. He only needed a half hour to grab some energon from the cafeteria.

Once upon a time, they'd been allowed to have personal energon dispensers in their quarters or offices, but then Ultra Magnus caught wind of bots abusing the privilege. That's what happened when you accepted rabble into the ranks. Rung paused at a t-junction of the hall to glance at the holographic radar display projected from his arm. Its range was quite limited, but sufficient to show Rung a five or six blips moving down the left hallway, while only two to the right. He turned right.

It wasn't that he was afraid of his fellow Autobots; most of them didn't even notice him. But it paid to be cautious.

After taking the long way around the base, Rung arrived at the cafeteria. He paused in the doorway to take in the current occupants. The lunch rush had already come and gone, leaving but a few Autobots lingering at the plain white tables . . . Jackpot was playing some kind of dice game with Smokescreen, Whirl was chatting with a mini-bot Rung didn't know, and . . . oh dear. There were Prowl and Jazz in the corner.

Well, there was no help for that. Rung slipped in and picked up an empty cube. Squaring his shoulders, he put his back to Prowl as he typed in his passcode and began filling his cube. The odds were the interrogator wouldn't notice him anyway; not many did.

The energon trickled into the cube . . . Was the dispenser always this slow? Rung's systems kept trying to switch to a 'high-alert' status and he kept manually canceling them. He refused to cower in front of someone from his own faction. But he had the uncomfortable feeling that Prowl's glare was boring its way through his helm . . .

Rung snuck a careful, casual glance over his shoulder. Prowl was no longer at his table. So where was he? Rung swept a wider glance around the room and was relieved to find that Prowl had merely moved to Whirl's table. Rung kept one optic on him while he topped off his drink, and that was why he failed to see the diminutive mini-bot approach from his other side and wind up for a punch.

Rung was more surprised than anything to find himself toppling over from a solid punch to the hip. His self-defense systems sprang online as soon as he was hit, causing his joints to seize up as he skidded across the floor on a slick pool of spilled energon. He caught a glimpse of Prowl's smirk before he got up, laughing with Jazz on their way out.

Rung forced himself upright faster than was strictly healthy, his head spinning and his spark churning with fury. Whirl was striding over, giving him a casual nod as he checked on the mini-bot he'd been chatting with earlier.

"Oh good, you didn't kill him. This little guy's new, just learning the ropes, and Prowl dared him to—"

"Punch me."

"Right. To give him a shock. Like an initiation gag, you know? I would have stopped him but, hey, it was funny!"

Rung gave Whirl his coldest look at he stood up, dripping energon. "Hilarious."

"I guess you kind of wasted your ration for the day," Whirl observed. Rung reminded himself that violence was not his function, no matter how much he wished it was at this moment.

"Whoa, that was a rush." The mini-bot on the floor sat up, cradling his head in his hands. He must have been tougher than he looked to regain consciousness so soon.

"Welcome back, shorty!" Whirl said cheerfully. "So like I was saying, this is Tailgate. Tailgate, I'd like you to meet Eyebrows."

"That's not really his designation, is it?"

"Nah, it's way less interesting. It's . . . uh . . ."

Rung could _see_ Whirl searching his memory banks for his name; he offered no help as Whirl shifted from foot to foot, scratching his arm.

 _We've served on the same ship for 70 vorns, you horrible creature._

"—so anyway, _mumble mumble_ , is our . . . therapist? Hypnotist? Something like that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch the name?" Tailgate said, cocking his head.

"He's, you know, _mutter mumble."_

"What?"

"My name is Rung," Rung said, forcing his voice to remain mild. He wondered why he bothered. This one wasn't going to remember him either.


	3. Chapter 3

Sessions with Rung were never exactly exciting, but today was particularly dull and . . . uncomfortable. The therapist had arrived late, scrubbing congealing energon off his plating, and barely acknowledged Deadlock as he sank into his seat. With his eyebrows drawn down and mouth pressed into a tight line, he furiously dabbed blue paint on his arm with that stupidly tiny brush. Deadlock mentally shrugged, grateful for the lack of attention. More than once Deadlock had seen Autobots take out their frustrations on Decepticon prisoners (and more than once he'd _been_ that prisoner). It was fortunate that this 'Bot just stewed.

After a while, though, Deadlock's fingers started to twitch restlessly. How long had he been here? The room didn't have a clock and Prowl had broken his internal chronometer ages ago.

Rung just kept painting. _Shiff, shiff, shiff._ The brushstrokes were almost inaudible. Yet now that Deadlock had noticed them, he couldn't unhear them. The sound was soft, persistent, annoying. _Shiff, shiff, shiff._

"Hey." Deadlock said when he couldn't stand it anymore. Rung stopped painting; whatever came next was worth it, even if he shot Deadlock's helm off or something. "Hey, why d'you use paint instead of nanites?"

"Paint is less expensive," Rung said shortly. "And doesn't need a medic to program the color."

"So you guys have a nasty, rusty medbay, huh? Figures. Goes along perfectly with your nasty, rusty personalities."

The Autobot gave a deep, exasperated sigh before forcing a smile. "Well, you'd better get used to our 'nasty, rusty' personalities because you're not going anywhere else."

Deadlock stared at him. Was that supposed to be a joke? Most jokes didn't have a punchline of 'You're going to be our prisoner forever, ha ha', but you never knew with Autobots.

"Wouldn't count on that, Skinny-Struts. I've taken out more Autobots than you can count. Maybe you'll be next."

He waited for a threat back or at least sarcastic response. Instead Rung made a vague, tired gesture.

"You have such fire, Deadlock. Too much, I sometimes think."

"Don't pretend like you know me, pal," Deadlock growled.

"Maybe I don't. But I know your function."

Deadlock locked eyes with him, curling his lips in a sneer. "Yeah, I know what you think my _function_ is. To die in a slum."

"I never said that, but projection is a common defense mechanism. I forgive you." This time Rung's smile was gentle and condescending. "You said something similar in previous sessions. 'My function was to starve in the streets.' But you were actually in the Transportation caste. You were a courier, weren't you, Drift?"

Deadlock stared. He worked his jaw but couldn't find the words to respond.

"That's right, isn't it?" The paintbrush tapped idly against Rung's cheek, streaking it with a delicate lash of pale blue as he leaned his chin on his hand. "Your function was to deliver packages. Not an opulent job, but respectable. No one wanted you to die in an alley. They simply wanted you to be useful, to contribute. But you couldn't." He leaned forward, a convincing expression of concern on his faceplate. "It was drugs, wasn't it, Drift?"

"Who—who told you that crap? Who told you that name?"

"Have I touched a nerve? I'm so sorry." Rung looked intolerably smug. "You'd be surprised what I know."

"Well, whoever told you was full of it," Deadlock said, puffing his plating and glaring into the mech's optics. "I've always been Deadlock." A bolt of inspiration made him add, "Just like you've always been Rong."

Rung's smile slipped a fraction. "Mm, well, I think we're done for the day." He pressed a button on his desk, calling the guards.

"No way. Nope." Deadlock's fists were clenched. "Who? Who was it? Tell me." His chair toppled over as he pushed out of it, towering over the diminutive Autobot blinking up at him. "Who told you—"

A huge hand gripped his shoulder and swung him around. Deadlock had a brief glance of Ore before the guard drove a fist into his face. When he doubled over in pain, Shock followed it up with an elbow to the back of his neck.

"Now, now," Rung said mildly as Deadlock hit the floor hard enough to crumple his nasal structure. "This room is a sanctuary."

"Sorry," Ore grunted, not sounding it.

"Ah well," Rung said, "we all make mistakes."

* * *

Nights were restless and confusing in this place, a rush of fragmented nightmares that left Deadlock more weary than rested. And, inevitably, he found himself being marched to Rung's office yet again.

Rung was rooting through a lower drawer in his desk as Deadlock was ushered in. He straightened, setting a cube of field rations on his desk with a bi-colored hand, and smiled pleasantly as he watched Shock and Ore shove the Decepticon into his usual chair.

"Ah, you're back." He still had that lash of paint on his cheek, too, like a thin blue scar. It looked stupid. Just like Rung's face.

Deadlock stared at him bitterly and silently.

"Not talkative today?" the Autobot inquired, cocking an eyebrow. "What a disappointment. But it's your decision."

"How'd you know?"

"You must allow me my professional secrets. My job depends on it."

"I don't give a frag about your job."

"You should, Drift."

 _"Deadlock._ You call me Deadlock or I'll—"

"You'll do nothing," Rung said peaceably. "Because your life is hanging by a thread here, as I'm sure Prowl intimated. But I'm not Prowl. I'm willing to work with you. I'm willing to listen. It's my function."

"I don't want you listening! I don't want you nosing into my life! You, Prowl, Ironhide, there's no difference! You're all scum an' you're all looking for intel, for targets, for my comrades! And I ain't giving them up! NEVER!"

He was on his feet (though he didn't remember rising), fists clenched and trembling. To his fury Rung just sat there with an inscrutable expression, his chin resting on his hand.

Straightening in his seat, Rung gave a sigh that sounded like it came all the way from his pedes. "Have I ever once asked you about secret codes? Decepticon military strategy? Secret bases? The strengths and weaknesses of your allies?"

"Not yet." Deadlock scowled at Rung, arms swinging slightly and aimlessly, then dropped sullenly back into his seat. "So what? I know what you're doin'. Trying to soften me up."

Rung's chuckle seemed genuine. "I would never describe you as soft." His expression turned serious. "I'll call you Deadlock if that's what you want. But I'd like to talk about who Drift was."

"Why?" It came out as a mumble, not the defiant blast he'd wanted. "He was a loser who almost OD'ed on circuit boosters. He lost everything—his job, his friends, his health—"

"Not everything, or you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah, that's thanks to some slumming medic . . . no thanks to 'Drift'." He gave Rung a hard stare. "I'm not crazy. I know it was me. Drift was me. But that life is gone. I rebuilt myself inta something worthwhile and that's because of the _Decepticons_. That's 'cause of _Megatron_. Not because of you and your fragging system."

"I know." Rung sighed, taking off his glasses. "And I'm sorry."

Deadlock stared.

"We should have helped you. We should have supported you." Rung fiddled with his optic-enhancers, rolling the bridge of them slowly in his half-painted hands as he gazed at Deadlock with optics filled with regret. "You had a sterling record before your breakdown. You shouldn't have had to rely on a group of criminals in your time of need. You deserved better."

Deadlock looked away for a moment, fuming, then turned his one-eyed glare on the therapist, seizing on the words easiest to push back against. "They ain't criminals."

"They are," the Autobot said gently. "But I understand your attachment to them. They helped you so you feel obligated to obey them."

Deadlock barked an incredulous laugh. "Obey—? Buddy, I'm Megatron's top guy. I'm at the top of the heap."

"Oh, I was under the impression Starscream was his second. I'll update my notes."

Deadlock's face fell into a scowl. "Megatron only made him Second-in-Command to keep the Seekers from whining."

"Yes, warbuilds are tempermental, aren't they?"

"Hey, that's not what I—" Deadlock broke off with a frown. "I don't got a problem with warbuilds."

"Very practical. When are war-bots of more use than during a war?" Rung paused. "I've heard Seekers, in particular, are quite clannish. Is that accurate?"

"They stick together."

The psychiatrist hummed, resting his head on his hand. "Such an interesting frame-type. Cold-constructs, mass-produced and identical—though they tweaked the design a little every few millennia. I wonder what that's like. To come online with so many strangers wearing your face."

Deadlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Dunno."

"Yes, I can tell you're a forged mech. The Seekers, though . . . you would think that they would want to distance themselves from their cold-constructed brethren, given the chance," the Autobot mused. His optics—revealed to be more of a pink than a red with his magnifiers off—held a dreamy gloss. "To stand out as a unique frame, a unique person. Yet they have always been eager to lock themselves in their own city with their own strange culture, surrounded by their clone-frames. Is it a comfort, do you think?"

"Uh. Is what?"

"That sameness. Knowing their place," Rung said, "in their community. A happy, simple life where they don't need to think too much . . . just follow that instinctual desire to gather together and support one another. Beautiful, in a way."

"I don't think they lived much of a 'happy life' before the war," Deadlock said drily. "I think they were starving 'cause the Senate cut their rations down to nothing when the energon crisis hit."

"Yes, that was . . . short-sighted." Rung clicked his magnifiers back onto the bridge of his nose before leaning forward and lowering his voice as though he was imparting a secret. "It was a . . . a _mistake_. The Senate was not always right, Drift. I'm aware of that."

 _"Deadlock._ An' if you feel like that, why are you here? Why are you an Autobot?"

"They weren't always right in practice but their underpinnings were sound. Look at the Seekers: they may claim they want 'freedom' and opportunities, yet to this day they prefer the company of their own kind and they strafe the battlefields from the air. As they were built to do. So did they _really_ want freedom? Or did they rebel simply because they were starving and hoped for a kinder master?"

"That's . . . I mean, it's a war, 'course they're gonna be fighting. Everyone is. There are dataslugs out there with rifles."

Again Rung gave a little hum under his breath. "Do you feel the Seekers treat you fairly?"

"What d'ya mean? We don't fight or nothin'. We're all 'Cons."

"But they follow Starscream. That's what you told me, isn't it? The reason Megatron appointed Starscream as his Number Two bot. To maintain the support of the Seekers."

Rung waited a moment, but a reply never came. So he continued:

"But perhaps I'm being presumptuous in assuming they have a bias. You didn't actually _say_ the majority of them prefer Starscream, a cold-constructed Seeker, over yourself, a forged sports frame. Perhaps you meant there were one or two particularly _influential_ Seekers who prefer Starscream."

Rung nodded to himself as though satisfied, ignoring Deadlock's stillness.

"After all, you and he are obviously comparable in talent. I would expect them to support the two of you fifty-fifty. If they're capable of overcoming their baser instincts." Rung smiled at Deadlock's expressionless face. "Which I'm sure they are."

After Shock and Ore took Deadlock away, Rung leaned back in his chair and let out a long vent, taking off his optical magnifiers to rub at his eyes. The occasional stray pixel wandered across his vision and his processor felt fuzzy after an overly long day of mental exertion. How ironic. Still, his spark basked in the warm satisfaction of a job well-done.

Progress at last.


End file.
